A Little Family History

My maiden name is Brimley. My dad's people came from Scotland and England, with names like Kirk (Scottish for church) and Southworth (English for south worth, I would guess).

I have seen Brimley spelled Brameley and Bramelea. It means by the brim of the lea--edge of the meadow. Which likely indicates where these people originally lived. My dad's Grandfather was from Lancashire.

In the mid 1800s the Brimley family left England, from Liverpool, and sailed to America. My father's father was on the ship. He was just a boy then. His name, William Jedediah Brimley. They came to live in Utah, Zion to them, because they had joined the Mormon church.

The ship was old, slow, and leaky. It took six weeks to cross the Atlantic, with the older boys and the men bailing water around the clock. But, obviously, they made it. When they got to Salt Lake City they began life there in a small adobe house.

Eventually the Brimley brothers became butchers and had a store on State Street in Salt Lake City, Brimley Brothers' Meats. Started by the first Utah generation, it was passed down to their sons. I remember my dad telling that when he was young he would carry home the meats that didn't sell each day, like the organ meats, the tongue, and beef neck bones. Soup from the bones was often their dinner. And my dad prized beef heart and liver.

Actually, I also like the organ meats. Thanks, Daddy. But you can have the neck bones. And you can have the tongue. I tried. Really, I tried, but I just couldn't like eating a tongue, and I don't need to even see one on a plate again. Ever.

But I served beef liver (and chicken livers) to my kids. I don't know if I should say occasionally or often. You'd have to ask them how they feel/felt about that. I'm pretty sure none of them eat liver in their own homes.

Very hard to find these days in the grocery stores anyway.

Tangent. Sorry.

I have seen the store on State Street--a fine location, as my dad would say. It was many years ago when I last saw it. (Does anyone know for sure how long it lasted?)It was a few blocks west of Uncle Vern (his name was Laverne, poor kid) Brimley's house, as I recall, like around 26th South and State.

The store is gone now. So are all those Brimley brothers and sisters. My dad, born fourth, was the the second to last of them to die, as far as I know.

Their names:
Margaret Ann, named for her mother Margaret Ann Kirk, my grandmother whom I never knew. The daughter was Aunt Margie to us, 1886-1983. Born first, lived longest, 97 years.
Lulu 1888-1888.
William Ray 1889-1891
Wilford Charles 1891-1981, my dad, 89 when he died. Preceded in death by his wife Lola, our "little Mama," as he often called her. Daddy sold life insurance for New York Life Insurance Company, up and down the length of California, mostly on the military bases.
James Clyde 1894-1978, Uncle Clyde, a butcher. He took his large family to Mesa, Arizona. His children were the only cousins I knew. I loved their visits. He was a Navy veteran and had stories to tell.
Elsie 1896-1967
Laverne 1898- 1976, I met him a few times.
Wallace Gerald 1901-1935

It seems this post decided it had a life of its own, almost got away from me. It began so that I could say I like my name, Brimley. It's a good name.

Today's goals

Eat no sugar
Spend no money
Use no gasoline

I did it

Another scrumptious dish

How to Deep Fry Eggs
from WIKI HOW

While fried eggs may be your favorite, once you try deep fried eggs, it's possible you'll find them hard to resist. Deep frying the egg results in a caramelized sort of taste with a runny center. The egg also looks great, somewhat like a fried poached egg with crunchiness that seduces you straight away into wanting to take a bite.

What I want to know is this: Does that picture match the description below it? Does it really look great? Would I ever be seduced into taking a bite? And are those croutons? Fried eggs with croutons?

Gross, I say. This could get a person over her food addiction.

It's serious

Yesterday I heard a report given in that voice reporters assume to let hearers know that this is dangerous stuff. It was telling that there is such a thing as a FOOD ADDICTION.

Yikes! Oh no!

I mean, you could be addicted to food. Some people are, said the report.

Well guess what. I think I'm one of them.

It's like this: I want food every day. Almost like I have to have food every day.

Every day.

That's it. Addiction.

Those were the days,

I guess, when things were simpler, nicer. TV wasn't all murders, rapes, other and various crimes, and the fascinating lives of celebrities. Not that there is any connection. Oh yes, and fake reality shows.

And that's what I'm talking about, what was on TV. Shows like Space Patrol and What's My Line? and Believe It or Not, and we, the viewing public, liked them. We thought they were good entertainment. My, but weren't we simple?

I remember the host of Believe It or Not, Art Baker, a handsome white-haired man who always wore what looked to be a white suit. (Black and white TV.)

I fell in love with Art Baker. He was smooth and pleasant and had a wonderful speaking voice. (Later, when I saw him in one of his early movies and he was the bad guy--smooth and subtle but really bad--I fell out of love. So disappointing. I was just a kid, remember.)

I might have stopped watching Believe It or Not.

But here's the kind of thing the show featured. Drum roll, some kind of lead-up-to-it music: a man who could tear the Los Angeles phone book in two. Amazing.

Wouldn't you like to see that?

Something to consider

Writing is best done in the morning, before the mind has the day's marks on it.

Who said that? I did.

But I suppose it depends on what you are writing. Maybe you want the day's marks in the writing. Maybe that's what it's all about. The day.

Sticked on a pick-up, yes, that's sticked

We're into bumper stickers these days. Here are the two I saw today as I pulled up behind a pick-up. Both on the same pick-up.

1. NUKE IRAN
Then Hollywood

2. KEEP HONKING
I'M RELOADING

Both quite Idaho appropriate, I thought, so I looked up to see the driver, expecting a guy with plenty of scruffy hair and a baseball cap. But no. It was a woman. Hmmm.

Or so I thought, until he turned the corner. A man, plenty of hair, not scruffy but rather neatly combed into a page boy, and no cap. Well, it takes all kinds to make a world. And I guess that's true of Idaho, too.